A Moment in Time

by Judith Gould

  "Maybe so," he agreed. "I haven't been getting much sleep lately. Why don't you come over after you've been . . . well, wherever it is you're going?"

  "I don't think so, Teddy," she replied.

  "Ah, come on, Val," he said. "Just you and me. Late tonight. It'd be like having a late date."

  "No, Teddy," she said. "I told you I've already got plans, and I don't want to change them. Besides, I'm on call this weekend, so I'd better have an early night."

  "You're always on call," he groused.

  "No, Teddy, I'm not," she said. He sounds like a petulant child, she thought. "You know very well that we take turns at the clinic."

  "You said you had plans," he argued. "So you can do something else, but you can't see me?"

  "Look, Teddy, I don't want to argue about this. You told me you weren't going to be here this weekend, and I made plans. It's as simple as that. Why can't you live with it?"

  "Where are you going?" he asked heatedly.

  Valerie really didn't want to tell him. He wasn't fond of Eddie and Jonathan, and she didn't want to have to listen to his asinine comments about them. And telling him she was going to have dinner with Wyn Conrad made her feel queasy. He would probably explode. Then it occurred to her, as it had repeatedly over the last few weeks, that Teddy had a right to know what she was doing. After all, they were engaged, for the time being at least.

  Once again, she reminded herself of Colette's encouraging words, then drew a deep breath and plunged right in with the truth. "I'm going over to Eddie and Jonathan's for a drink," she said. "Then I'm going to dinner at Stonelair." There, the truth was out.

  "You're what!" he exclaimed in astonishment.

  "Do I really have to repeat myself, Teddy?"

  "I can't believe my ears," he snarled. "I mean, I can believe you're going over to Eddie's. For some reason, you've always liked that old fag, but—"

  "Stop right there," she said furiously. "Don't you ever belittle him like that again. You sound like some stupid twelve-year-old boy posturing in the locker room. Eddie's never been anything but nice to you, and he's been a real friend to me."

  "Ah, come on, Val," he said, a bit contritely. "You know I didn't mean any harm. I don't mind Eddie."

  "That's certainly not the way you sound," she said.

  "Yeah, well, what I can't believe is that you'd go out to that weirdo's at Stonelair."

  "I don't care what you believe," she snapped, still angry. "I've made plans, and they're not subject to your approval. Neither are the people I choose to see."

  There was silence for a moment as Teddy digested her remark. Valerie felt as if all her senses were heightened, and she could feel her skin tingle. The heat of the argument, she decided. And telling Teddy what I actually feel. Funny, now I really don't feel so bad. Maybe Colette was right. Maybe I should be honest more often.

  "I don't know what's happening to us, Val," Teddy finally said, his voice soft and hurt.

  "I think we'd better continue this conversation another time," she said. "I'm too angry to talk to you."

  "Well, I think we'd better continue it now," Teddy countered, "because I'm getting really worried."

  "No," Valerie said, "not now." He was already trying to put her on the defensive, and she wasn't going to have it. "We'll talk tomorrow, Teddy."

  "Val, I don't think—" he began.

  "We'll talk tomorrow," she repeated. "Good-bye, Teddy."

  "Val—"

  She quietly replaced the receiver in its cradle, then, elbows on the desk, she held her head in her hands. What have I done? she thought. For a brief moment, she thought that she should pick up the phone and call Teddy back. I should apologize and assure him that I'll spend time with him tomorrow. Then she remembered his remark about Eddie, and her anger returned. No way, she decided. If he's miserable, it's not my fault. He deserves it for being so thoughtless and nasty.

  The telephone on her desk jangled again, and she picked up the receiver. "Yes?" she said.

  "Mrs. Sutherland is here with Happy," Annie said, a note of glee in her voice.

  "I'll be right out," Val replied. Just my luck, she thought. That vicious old Mrs. Sutherland with her equally vicious little Happy, a yapper and a biter and a whiner. He was just like his mistress. She rose to her feet and took Happy's chart from the pile of today's patients on her desk. Elvis's tail thumped against the kneehole again. Leaning down, she gave him a few strokes. "Oh, Elvis," she said, "today's got to get better. It can't get worse."

  Arielle pulled the chintz drapery panel aside and gazed out the window of the guest house toward the swimming pool and tennis court in the distance. No sign of life about, except for a groundskeeper who was trimming hedges. Her eyes wandered to the mansion itself as she slowly sipped champagne from a crystal flute. "Oh, look, Lolo," she said. "Bibi and Joe are back. I thought I heard the car."

  Lolo stepped up behind her and craned his neck over her shoulder toward the window, following her gaze. He spotted the familiar figures he'd often seen in Palm Beach, walking toward the terrace at the rear of their pristine white mansion. "They're not coming out here," he said, stating the obvious.

  "No," she said. "The chauffeur said they would expect us for cocktails at six o'clock, so I guess until then we should stay out here. Bibi's a real stickler for protocol."

  She felt Lolo's arms encircle her waist and his warm breath on her neck. "Good," he said. "We can have a little fun before dinner."

  She let the drapery fall back into place and turned in his arms, facing him. She set her champagne glass down on a table. "Let's move away from the window," she said. "I'd hate for that old dragon lady to see us in our underwear."

  "She can't see us from there," he said, nuzzling her neck with his lips.

  "She'll probably have binoculars trained on the windows at all hours," Arielle said.

  Lolo chuckled. "That's loco, Arielle," he said, snapping the waist of her flesh-colored bikini panties.

  "Believe me," Arielle retorted, "Bibi's just loco enough to do it. She's probably even got this guest house bugged."

  Lolo drew back and looked at her with genuine concern. "Do you really think she would do a thing like that?"

  Arielle shrugged. "Who knows?" she replied. "I wouldn't put it past her. I do know that she puts up a good front, acting real prim and proper, but underneath all her stupid old-lady Chanel suits, she's really a horny old cow. Joe probably hasn't been able to get it up in years."

  Lolo laughed. "You're loco, Arielle," he said, pulling her body up against his, relishing the feel of her silk panties and bra and firm tanned flesh against him.

  "Maybe," she said, "but I'm sure not stuck with an old stuffed shirt like Joe Whitman." She pressed her pelvis against his crotch, then brushed her lips lightly across his. "Why don't we have some more champagne?" she said softly.

  Lolo kissed her, then loosened his arms from around her. "That's a good idea," he said. "I'll get it." He picked up her glass, then walked over to the elegantly draped table, where his champagne flute sat nearly empty next to the sweating wine cooler.

  Arielle padded over to the big sofa, sat down, and drew her legs up onto the floral chintz, watching Lolo pour their drinks. She yawned and stretched her arms. It had been a long day after a very late and raucous night of lovemaking, but she'd managed to nap aboard the Whitman's Gulfstream V. The trip had gone without a hitch, and Larry, the Whitmans' chauffeur, had been at the airport to meet them in Bibi's dark green Rolls Royce Phantom V.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Whitman had to go out," Larry had explained, "and apologize for not being here to greet you. They will expect you at six o'clock for cocktails and then dinner."

  When they'd reached Bibi and Joe's monstrous old house in Saratoga, Mildred, the housekeeper, had greeted them and shown them to the guest house, where a bottle of chilled champagne awaited them. The guest house was filled to overflowing with bowls and vases stuffed with beautiful flowers, roses mostly, and a cornucopia of fresh fruit sat in th
e center of the dining table. The kitchen was well stocked with an assortment of gourmet treats to satisfy any appetite: cheeses, pates, caviar, various cuts of prepared meat and fowl, and mineral water, mixers, sodas, and liquor galore.

  Bibi, she reflected, was legendary for her exquisite taste and lavish entertaining, and deservedly so. Too bad Arielle didn't really like her or old Joe, but even the dragon lady and the stuffed shirt couldn't dampen her excitement at being here in Saratoga.

  I'm only a stone's throw from Wyn, she thought, and I can already smell all that lovely money.

  Lolo stood over her, a glass of champagne extended in her direction. She smiled and took it from him. "Thanks, Lolo," she said, moving her legs and patting the sofa with a hand.

  He sat down next to her, then lifted her long, slender legs and placed them over his own. "What are you thinking about, my loco Arielle?" he asked, running a hand up one of her legs toward her thigh.

  "Hmmm," she breathed, taking a sip of the champagne, then setting the crystal flute down on the marble-topped coffee table. She looked at him, smiled mysteriously, and withdrew a cigarillo from the pack on the table.

  Lolo reached for her gold cigarette lighter and lit the cigarillo for her, looking into her eyes. Then he took one for himself and lit it. "You're up to some¬thing, Arielle," he said. "What is it?"

  She took a long draw on her cigarillo. "Ooooh, just an idea," she said teasingly, smoke trailing from her nostrils.

  "What?" he asked, running his hand back up her thigh again, his dark eyes searching hers.

  "I thought ... I thought we might pay a call on Wyn," she said. "I mean . . . we're so close and all." She stared at him, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

  His hand suddenly stopped moving, and his eyes bored into hers. "You're joking, aren't you?" he said, already knowing that she was deadly serious. "I told you that I would talk to him, man to man, but it's crazy for both of us to try to see him. He'd never see you, so I wouldn't get to him, either."

  She had the merest hint of a smile on her lips. "Maybe you're right, but I'm not joking. I've never been more serious."

  "But-but what are you thinking?" he stuttered. "What kind of plan do you have? This is really stupid, Arielle. Don't you see?"

  Her eyes never left his as she slowly shook her head. "Nooo," she said softly, "I don't. In fact, I think it might be one of the smartest things I've ever done." She languidly tapped her cigarillo in the ashtray.

  Lolo became agitated. "Arielle," he said, "what the hell have you got in mind? You know he doesn't want you there. It's crazy."

  "He won't even know we've been there," she said, looking into Lolo's eyes. "If things work out the way I want them to." She smashed her cigarillo out in the ashtray, then reached toward him with her arms. "Come here," she said, sliding one of her legs around his back, the other still across his lap.

  He set his champagne down and put out his cigarillo, looking at her anxiously. "I don't know, Arielle," he said slowly, shaking his black curls.

  "Come here," she repeated, reaching for him.

  He leaned toward her, letting her hook an arm around his neck, her legs scissored around his torso. Her other arm slid down to his crotch, and she eased her hand beneath his jockey shorts, encircling the growing tumescence there. "Kiss me, Lolo," she said. "Kiss me hard."

  Teddy sat behind his desk in the office at Apple Hill, his feet propped up on its surface. He finished looking over the paperwork Lydia had left for him and flung it down unceremoniously onto his desk. He heaved an audible sigh of relief. The ups and downs of the last few days had almost gotten the best of him, that and having to be on perfect behavior with Marguerite and Jamie.

  He knew that the nose candy had helped fuel the ups and had probably been responsible for the depth of the lows, but, hell, he didn't know how else to keep going. Between running his investment company, satisfying clients, trying to keep Val happy, and making certain that he and Tiffani had time for a little fun on the side—well, it had all begun to wear him down as never before.

  But everything's in order now, he told himself grimly. He'd had a handful of investors who'd recently withdrawn all of their money from his investment service—thanks to the volatility in the marketplace—and he'd had to perform a number of intricate and time-consuming maneuvers to make certain that they were all fully recompensed.

  Now at least those bastards are all out of my hair, he thought. There was no satisfaction in it for him, however. He'd been controlling a quarter of a billion dollars last week—chump change as far as a lot of high-flying Wall Street guys were concerned, but a tidy sum for him to work with—investing it for a small group of very rich clients. This week he found himself left with less than fifty million dollars, money entrusted to him by those investors who'd stuck with him despite recent losses in the market.

  Thank God, Marguerite de la Rochelle and James de Biron hopped on board when they did, he thought for the umpteenth time. And thank God Dock Wainwright came through with the paperwork and checks overnight. Between himself, Lydia, and Dock, everything had been set up. He was in full control of Marguerite's stock portfolio now, and had a good chunk of Jamie's to boot. He'd needed all the capital he could get his hands on to repay all those investors who'd abandoned ship. Now he just had to make certain that when the time came, he could show Marguerite and Jamie that their money was not only intact but making a nice hefty profit under his brilliant and watchful eye.

  I'll be able to do it, he told himself convincingly. I've played the market successfully in the past, and I can do it again. I just need the chance to hit the right stock at the right time, and. . . voila! I'm not only back in business but back in the black. I'll just have to be very careful dealing with Marguerite and Jamie.

  He knew they both appeared on the surface to be unconcerned with money, as if it were something dirty for others to deal with, but he also knew that beneath their sophisticated and aristocratic exteriors, they wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice him to the authorities if they detected the least impropriety on his part.

  His thoughts turned to Valerie and the telephone conversation they'd had a little while ago. He considered telling Marguerite what had transpired. He knew that she was capable of instilling in Valerie a sense of duty and responsibility, if not outright fear, and he knew that she was his ally. She would certainly be mad to hear that Valerie had so offhandedly given her fiancé the brush-off.

  He reached down and pulled open the bottom right- hand drawer in his desk and picked up the little box he had put there. He set it down on the desk and extracted the plastic bag of white powder and the silver straw. He ignored the mirror and razor blade as he had ever since he reached the country. Instead, he opened the bag, stuck one end of the straw in the powder and the other in his nostril. He inhaled deeply and held his breath for a long moment, then repeated the process with his other nostril. When he finished, he leaned back in his chair, enjoying the enhanced feeling of well-being that the drug rapidly induced.

  He looked at the telephone, thinking that he would place that call to Marguerite, then decided to wait and talk to her when she and Jamie came over to sign paperwork. That might prove to be interesting, he thought, because Jamie de Biron was an enigma to him, and he needed to get to know him better. After all, the better he knew him, the better he'd know how to control him.

  Whoa! Suddenly he realized the coke had really hit, and he felt almost as if his body had begun to vibrate with life.

  I'll try to get hold of Tiffani, he thought. Make sure we can get together tonight. He was off the hook with Val, so he might as well make the best of his time.

  He dialed her number and waited. After the fourth ring the machine kicked in. Shit! he thought. After the message beep, he said, "Hey, babe, it's Teddy. Call me as soon as you get in. Let's party tonight. I've got lots of toys to play with."

  Slamming the receiver in its cradle, he frowned. Where the fuck is she? he wondered. First Val, now Tiff. She's probably already out at t
hat local dump of a bar with redneck friends.

  And now I've got to get ready to play host to Marguerite and Jamie, he thought. Put my best foot forward. But he knew they wouldn't be here long, probably no more than a couple of hours at the most. Tiffani probably wouldn't get his message until late. That left him at least a couple of hours alone.

  Suddenly he decided what he would do with those two hours or so. He laughed aloud, then got to his feet and picked up the box on the desk, tucking it under his arm, grinning from ear to ear. First I'll take a shower, he thought, walking toward the office door. Then change clothes for Marguerite and Jamie. Be my most charming self for them. When they've gone, I'll have a little bite of whatever it is Hattie's left in the kitchen for me. If I feel hungry. Then I'll get busy. I know what'll put the fear of God in Val for sure. And it'll serve her right, too. Serve them all right.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A table for two had been set on the stone terrace just outside the big library. In its center was a small bowl filled with daisies and other colorful wild flowers, and to either side of it, big glass hurricanes held candles that flickered romantically as the night darkened. The table was set with a colorful cotton Provencal cloth and simple pottery dishes with attractive but plain glassware and silver.

  The table looked summery and beautiful, Val thought, yet casual and not too precious. Thank heaven it didn't look as if everything had belonged to some long-departed royal or immensely rich robber baron. She appreciated its simplicity all the more because of the grandeur of the house itself. She hadn't known what to expect, of course, but was hoping that the dinner wouldn't be as formal as what one might expect in such a mansion.

  She'd been surprised not to be greeted by Santo Ducci, or see him at all. Wyn had answered the door himself, dressed in khakis, a crisp black linen shirt, and

  Top-Siders. She'd been doubly surprised when he'd mixed their drinks himself—a vodka and tonic for her, a scotch and water for him—then served the dinner without anyone assisting him, other than Val herself.